Law in Ireland half a century ago—Its delay remedied, but not its
uncertainty—Principal and Interest—Eustace Stowell and Richard
Martin—Valuable _precedents_—A bloodless duel—High sheriffs and their
_Subs_—Irish method of serving a writ—Cases of warranty—Messrs. Reddy
Long and Charley White—The latter guarantees an unsound horse to the
author—Zeal of a _second_—Mr. Reddy Long’s valuable legacy to Sir
Jonah Barrington.
The administration of the law among gentlemen in Ireland fifty years
back, is curiously illustrated by the following little narrative, the
circumstances whereof have been communicated to me from such a quarter
as not to admit of their being doubted.
Our laws, in their most regular course (as every body knows, who has had
the honour and happiness of being much involved in them), are neither so
fleet as a race-horse, nor so cheap as water-cresses. They indisputably
require eloquent advocates and keen attorneys;—who expound, complicate,
unriddle, or confuse, the respective statutes, points, precedents, and
practice, of that simple science, which too frequently, like a
burning-glass, consumes both sides of what it shines upon.
Some prudent and sensible gentlemen, therefore, principally in the
country parts of Ireland (who probably had bit upon the bridle), began
to conceive that justice ought to be neither so dear nor so tardy; and
when they reflected that what were called their “barking irons” brought
all ordinary disputes to a speedy termination—why, thought they, should
not these be equally applicable to matters of law, property, and so
forth, as to matters of honour? At all events, such an application would
be incalculably _cheaper_, than any taxed bill of costs, even of the
most conscientious solicitor.
This idea became very popular in some counties, and, indeed, it had
sundry old precedents in its favour,—the writ of right and trial by
battle having been originally the law of the land, and traditionally
considered as far the most honourable way of terminating a suit. They
considered, therefore, that what was lawful one day, could not be justly
deemed unlawful another, and that by shortening the process of
distributing justice, they should assist in extending it. The old jokers
said, and said truly, that many a cause had been decided to a _dead_
certainty in a few minutes, by simply touching a trigger, upon which
attorneys, barristers, judges, jurors, witnesses, and sometimes all the
peers of the realm, spiritual and temporal, had been working and
fumbling for a series of years without bringing it even to an
_un_satisfactory issue.
My old and worthy friend, “Squire Martin,” afforded a most excellent
illustration of this practice; and as all the parties were “gentlemen to
the backbone,” the anecdote may be deemed a _respectable_ one. I have
often heard the case quoted in different companies, as a beneficial mode
of ensuring a compromise. But the report of my friend makes it any thing
but a _compromise_ on his part. The retrograding was no doubt on the
part of _the enemy_, and equally unequivocal as Moreau’s through the
Black Forest, or that of the ten thousand Greeks, though neither so
brave nor so bloody as either of them.
I name place, parties, cause, proceedings, and final judgment—just as I
received these particulars from the defendant himself; and I consider
the case as forming a very _valuable precedent_ for corresponding ones.
Eustace Stowell, Esq. challenger.
Richard Martin, Esq. acceptor.
Operator for the challenger, D. Blake, Esq.
Operator for the acceptor, Right Honourable St. George Daly, late judge
of the King’s Bench, Ireland.
_Case as reported by Defendant._
Eustace Stowell lent me a sum of money on interest, which interest I had
not paid _very_ regularly. Mistaking my means, I promised to pay him at
a certain time, but failed. He then called on me, and said I had broken
my word. I answered, “Yes, I have, but I could not help it. I am very
sorry, but in a few days will satisfy the demand.” Accordingly, my
worthy friend the late Earl of Mountjoy accepted my bills at three and
six months for the whole amount.
Having arranged the business thus, I enclosed the bills to Mr. Eustace
Stowell, who immediately returned them, saying, that as I had broken my
word, he would accept of no payment but hard money.
I replied that I had no hard money, nor was there much of it afloat in
my part of the country; upon which Mr. Eustace Stowell immediately sent
his friend to me, requiring me either to give him cash or _personal
satisfaction_; and in the latter event, to appoint time and place. My
answer was, that I did not want to shoot him unless he _insisted_ upon
it; but that as to _cash_, though Solomon was a wise man, and Sampson a
strong one, neither of them could pay ready money if they had it not. So
I prepared to engage him: my friend the Right Honourable St. George
Daly, since judge of the King’s Bench, assisted in arranging
preliminaries to our mutual satisfaction, and pretty early next morning
we met to _fight out_ the debt in that part of the Phœnix Park called
the Fifteen Acres.
Every thing proceeded regularly, as usual. Our pistols were loaded, and
the distance measured, eight yards from muzzle to muzzle. I stepped on
my ground, he on his. I was just presenting my pistol at his body, when,
having, I suppose, a presentiment that he should go somewhere out of
this world if I let fly at him, he instantly dropped his weapon, crying
out, “Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin! a pretty sort of _payment_ this! You’d
shoot me for my interest money, would you?”
“If it’s your _pleasure_, Mr. Eustace Stowell,” said I, “I certainly
will; but it was not my desire to come here, or to shoot you. You
insisted on it yourself: so go on, if you please, now we are here.”
“What security will you give me, Mr. Martin,” said he, “for my interest
money?”
“What I have offered you already,” said I.
“And what’s that?” demanded Mr. Stowell.
“I offered you Lord Mountjoy’s bills at three and six months,” said I.
Before I had time to finish the last words Mr. Stowell cried out,
“Nothing can be better or more reasonable, Mr. Martin; I accept the
offer with pleasure. No better payment can be. It is singular you did
not make this offer _before_.”
“I think,” said I, “you had better take your ground again, Mr. Eustace
Stowell, for I tell you I _did_ make this offer before, and may be you
don’t like so plump a contradiction. If not, I’m at your service. Here
is a letter under your own hand, returning the bills and declining to
receive them. See, read that!” continued I, handing it him.
“Bless me!” said he, “there must be some great misunderstanding in this
business. All’s right and honourable. I hope the whole will be
forgotten, Mr. Martin.”
“Certainly, Mr. Stowell,” replied I: “but I trust you’ll not be so hard
to please about your interest money in future, when it’s not convenient
to a gentleman to pay it.”
He laughed, and we all four stepped into the same carriage, returned the
best friends possible, and I never heard any thing irritating about his
interest money afterward.
* * * * *
This case, however, was only a simple one on the _money counts_—a mere
matter of _assumpsit_, in which all the gross and ungentlemanly legal
expressions used in law declarations on _assumpsits_ were totally
avoided—such as “intending thereby to deceive and defraud:”—language
which, though _legal_, a Galway gentleman would as soon eat his horse as
put up with from his equal—though he would bear it from a shopkeeper
with sovereign indifference. When such a one, therefore, was sued in
_assumpsit_ for a horse or so by a gentleman, the attorney never let his
client read the law declaration—the result of which would be injurious
to two of the parties at least, as one of the litigants would probably
lose his life, and the attorney the litigation. The foregoing cause was
conducted with as much politeness and decorum as could possibly be
expected between four high well-bred persons, who, not having “the fear
of God before their eyes,” but, as law indictments very properly set
forth, “being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil,” had
congregated for the avowed purpose of committing or aiding in one or
more wilful and deliberate murders.
I must here observe that, in addition to the other advantages this mode
of proceeding between gentlemen had over that of courts of justice, a
certain principle of equity was understood to be connected with it.
After a gentleman was regularly called out, and had duly fought the
challenger respecting any sum of money, whether the trial ended in death
or not, after a single shot the demand was extinguished and annulled for
ever: no man can be sued twice for the same debt. Thus, the challenger
in a money case stood in rather an unpleasant situation—as, exclusive of
the chance of getting a _crack_, the money was for ever gone, whether
his adversary lived or died—unless, indeed, the acceptor, being a
“gentleman _every inch of him_,” might feel disposed to waive his
“privilege.”
But this short, cheap, and decisive mode of terminating causes was not
confined to simple money counts; it extended to all actions at law and
proceedings in equity. The grand old procrastinators of Irish
courts—_demurrers_ and _injunctions_—were thus dissolved or obviated by
a _trigger_, in a shorter time than the judges took to put on their wigs
and robes. Actions also of trover, assault, trespass, detenu, replevin,
covenant, &c. &c. were occasionally referred to this laudable branch of
jurisprudence with great success, seldom failing of being finally
decided by seven o’clock in the morning.
The system was also resorted to by betters at cock-fights, horse-races,
or hurlings; as well as on account of breaches of marriage-contracts
with sisters, nieces, or cousins; or of distraining cattle, beating
other gentlemen’s servants, &c. &c.: but none were more subject to the
_trigger process_ than high sheriffs when their year was over, if they
had permitted their _subs_ to _lay on_ (as they called it) such things
as executions, _fieri facias_, or _scire facias_, _haberes_, &c.; or to
molest the person, property, or blood relations, of any _real_ and
spirited gentleman in his own bailiwick, or _out of it_.
The high sheriff being thus, by the laws of custom, honour, and the
country gentlemen of Ireland, subject to be either shot or horsewhipped,
or forced to commit a breach of public duty, very fortunately discovered
an antidote to this poison in the person of his sub-sheriff—an officer
generally selected from the breed of country attorneys. Now, it was an
invariable engagement of the _sub_ that he should keep, guarantee, and
preserve his _high_ from all manner of injury and annoyances. But as it
was by common accord decided, that a sub-sheriff could not possibly be
considered a _gentleman_, none such would do him the honour of fighting
him. Yet, being necessitated to adopt some mode of keeping the _high_
out of the fangs of fire-eaters, and himself from a fracture by the
_butt-end_ of a loaded whip, or the welts of a cutting one, or of having
his “seat of honour” treated as if it were a foot-ball, the _sub_ struck
out a plan of preventing any catastrophe of the kind—which plan, by aid
of a little smart affidavit, generally succeeded extremely well in the
superior courts.
When the sub-sheriff received a writ or process calculated to annoy any
gentleman (_every inch of him_, or _to the backbone_), he generally sent
his bailiff at night to inform the gentleman that he had such a writ or
process, hoping the squire would have no objection to send him the
little fees on it with a small _douceur_, and he would pledge his word
and honour that the squire should hear no more about the matter for that
year. If the gentleman had not by him the amount of the fees (as was
generally the case), he faithfully _promised_ them, which being
considered a debt of _honour_, was always, like a gambling debt,
entitled to be earliest paid. Upon this, the sub, as soon as he was
forced to make a return to such writs, did make a very sweeping
one—namely, that the defendant had neither “body nor goods.” This was,
if required, confirmed by the little smart affidavit; and if still
doubted by the court, the _sub_ never wanted plenty of _respectable_
corroborating bailiffs to kiss _their thumbs_, and rescue the _high_ out
of any trifling dilemma that “his honour might get into through the
Dublin people, bad luck to them all! root and branch, dead or alive,” as
the country _bums_ usually expressed themselves.
Of the general application of this decisive mode of adjudicating cases
of warranty and guarantee, I can give a tolerably clear example in my
own proper person. When very young, I was spending a day at a cottage
belonging to Mr. Reddy Long, of Moat, near Ballyragget, a fire-eater,
when one Mr. Charley White sold me a horse for ten guineas, which he
warranted sound, and which seemed well worth the money. Next day, when
the seller had departed, the beast appeared to my host (not to me) to
limp somewhat, and the dealing had thereby the appearance of jockeyship
and false warranty—which occurring in the house of a fire-eater,
rendered the _injury_ an _insult_, and was accounted totally
unpardonable. I knew, that if the beast were really lame, I could oblige
the seller to return the money; and accordingly told my host that if it
turned out unsound, I’d get John Humphreys, the attorney, to write to
Charley White to _refund_.
“An _attorney_ write to a _gentleman_!” said Reddy Long, starting and
staring at me with a frown. “Are you out of your wits, my neat lad? Why,
if you sent an attorney in an affair of horse-flesh, you’d be damned in
all society—you’d be out of our list, by—”
“Certainly,” said I, “it’s rather a small matter to go to law about,”
(mistaking his meaning).
“Law! Law!” exclaimed Reddy, “Why, thunder and oones! _jockeying_ one is
a personal insult all the world over, when it’s a _gentleman_ that
resorts to it, and in the house of another gentleman. No, no; you must
make him give up the _shiners_, and _no questions asked_, or I’ll have
him out ready for you to shoot at in the meadows of Ahaboe by seven in
the morning. See here!” said he, opening his ornamented mahogany
pistol-case, “see, the boys are as bright as silver; and I’m sure if the
poor things could speak, they’d thank you for getting them their
liberty: they have not been out of their own house these three months.”
“Why, Reddy Long,” said I, “I vow to God I do not want to _fight_;
there’s no reason for my quarrelling about it. Charley White will return
my money when I ask him for it.”
“That won’t do,” said Reddy: “if the horse limps, the insult is
complete; we must have no bad precedents in this county. One gentleman
warranting a _limper_ to another in _private_ is a gross affront, and a
hole in his skin will be indispensable. At fairs, hunts, and
horse-races, indeed, its ‘catch as catch can;’ there’s no great
dishonour as to beasts in the open air. That’s the rule all the world
over. Law, indeed! no, no, my boy, ten guineas or death—no sort of
alternative! Tom Nolan,” continued he, looking out of the window,
“saddle the pony;—I’ll be with Charley White of Ballybrophy before he
gets home, as sure as Ben Burton!”
“I tell you, Mr. Long,” said I, rather displeased, “I tell you I don’t
want to fight, and I won’t fight. I feel no insult yet at least, and I
desire you not to deliver any such message from me.”
“You do!” said Reddy Long, “you do!” strutting up and looking me
fiercely in the face. “Then, if you won’t fight _him_, you’ll fight
_me_, I suppose?”
“Why so?” said I.
“What’s that to you?” said he; but in a moment he softened and added,
taking me by the hand, “My good lad, I know you are a mere boy, and not
up to _the ways_ yet; but your father would be angry if I did not make
you do yourself justice; so come, get ready, my buck, to canter off to
Denny Cuff’s, where we’ll be more handy for to-morrow.”
I persisted in desiring him not to deliver any hostile message; but in
vain. “If,” said he, as he mounted his pony, “you won’t fight, I must
fight him myself, as the thing occurred in my house. I’ll engage that,
if you did not call out Charley, all the bullock-feeders from Ossory,
and that double-tongued dog from Ballybrophy at the head of them, would
_post_ you at the races at Roscrea.”
Before I could expostulate further Mr. Reddy Long galloped off with a
_view holloa_, to deliver a challenge for me against my will[23] to Mr.
Charley White, who had given me no provocation. I felt very uneasy;
however, off I rode to Cuffsborough, where I made my complaint to old
Denny Cuff, whose daughter was married to Reddy Long, and whose son
afterward married my sister.
-----
Footnote 23:
I had made an unbending rule, for which I was dreadfully teased in the
country, never to fight or quarrel about horse-flesh.
-----
Old Cuff laughed heartily at me, and said, “You know Charley White?”
“To be sure I do,” said I; “a civil and inoffensive man as any in
Ossory.”
“That’s the very reason Reddy will deliver a challenge to him,” said
Cuff.
“’Tis an odd reason enough,” answered I.
“But a right good one too,” rejoined old Cuff.—“Reddy knew that Charley
would rather give _fifty_ yellow boys than stand _half_ a shot, let
alone a _couple_. I’ll answer for it Reddy knows what he is about:” and
so it proved.
My self-elected second returned that evening with Charley White’s groom,
to take back the horse; and he brought me my ten guineas. On my thanking
him, and holding out my hand to receive them, after a moment’s
hesitation, he said, “You don’t want them for a day or two, do you?”
Taken completely by surprise, I answered involuntarily, “No.”
“Well, then,” said my friend Reddy, “I am going to the races of Roscrea,
and I won’t give you _the ten_ till I come back. It’s all one to you,
you know?” added he, begging the question.
It was _not_ all one to me: however, I was too proud or rather silly to
gainsay him, and he put the pieces into his purse with a number of
similar companions, and went to the races of Roscrea, where he was soon
disburdened of them all, and contracted sundry obligations into the
bargain. I was necessitated to go home, and never saw him after. He died
very soon, and bequeathed me an excellent chestnut hunter, called Spred,
with Otter, a water-dog of singular talents. I was well pleased when I
heard of this; but, on inquiry, found they were _lapsed legacies_, as
the horse had died of the glanders a year before, and the dog had run
mad, and was hanged long ere the departure of his master. I suppose,
when death was torturing poor Reddy, (for he died of the gout in his
head,) he forgot that the horse had been then skinned more than a
twelvemonth.